


The Adventure Of The Greek Interpreter (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [54]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Nightmares, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 07:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10759797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock works to prevent a diplomatic incident, whilst Watson meets the Collins family, one of whom will come to have a major effect on his and his friend's lives. And the doctor has a terrible nightmare that, unfortunately, foretells what is to come.





	The Adventure Of The Greek Interpreter (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



I would not have yielded my friendship with Sherlock for the whole world. Despite his many annoying habits – the fake pipe, the pistol-shooting indoors, the violin-playing, the complete inability to function as a human being before his first coffee of the morning, the theft of my bacon every breakfast (he just looked so mournfully across the table at me that I caved every time), the permanently scruffy hair, the..... 

He was my true friend. After eight years of living together (not including the Hiatus), it was somehow wonderfully reassuring to see that blue-eyed scruff stagger to the breakfast table every morning as if his life depended on reaching the coffee. I was not the best morning person around, but he was truly horrendous! If I ever wanted to end it all, I had only to insert myself between Sherlock and caffeine of a morning!

One of the most definitive parts of Sherlock's character was his insistence on what he called 'personal space', which was why I had been so surprised on the two previous occasions on which he had embraced me (although I told myself that I was excused one of those because of the shock caused by his unexpected return). This case included the third time I was allowed inside that invisible barrier that surrounded him – I shall not embarrass the married high society lady who tried to persuade him to take her case by draping herself over him, safe to say that I did not know that he could run that fast! - and as with the last, it was caused by stress.

+~+~+

Looking at my life right now, I could truly say that I was a happy man. So when I came out of my room to find Mr. Bacchus Holmes sat in Sherlock's fireside chair, I scowled. Sherlock had, very generously in my opinion, re-admitted his brother to his good graces after the latter had written a fulsome letter of apology (fulsome if insincere; Sherlock had told me later that the terrifying Lady Rebecca had made him do it). The return of the lounge-lizard meant that it was clearly going to be One Of Those Days.

I walked past him and started to pour a coffee.

“Chin up, doctor!” he said reprovingly. “I am here on business. We need Sher to Save The Nation!”

“Bacchus!”

I tried (but failed miserably) not to smile when he jumped into the air, realizing too late that the great detective had emerged silently behind him and was standing just inches away. Even when he looked like death (barely) warmed up, he could still move with all the stealth of a sniper. 

“If you have touched my coffee, the only thing that will need investigating is your untimely and not unwelcome demise!” Sherlock almost snarled, pushing his brother out of the way to reach the coffee that I had ready for him, then glaring at our unwelcome visitor until he huffed and crossed to the other seat. I hurriedly placed the sugar-bowl next to my friend's cup, and he smiled his thanks before dumping four cubes into his cup. His brother opened his mouth to comment on it, but Sherlock shot him a look that made even me tremble, and his elder brother's jaw wisely snapped shut. A pity, as my generous nature meant that I would have been quite prepared to clean up any blood. Because I was nice like that.

“I swear, you are as bad as Gaylord”, Bacchus said with a sigh. 

“Coffee!” Sherlock growled. He downed most of his steaming-hot beverage in one mouthful, then sighed happily.

“Now you have had your caffeine and returned to humanity”, Bacchus said archly, “how about helping us with a major case?”

He glanced pointedly at me as he spoke, and I bridled.

“You know the deal, Bacchus”, Sherlock said coldly. “No Watson, no help. If this case is at all sensitive, he will keep the records but will not publish anything. Besides, I check everything he publishes beforehand.”

“Sometimes it is almost as if you two are married!” the taller Holmes groused. I smiled at the thought.

“We are not”, Sherlock said archly. “I doubt that Watson would have me, although I suppose that I might look good in a white dress, especially one with...”

“Sherlock!”

His brother sniggered. I knew that my friend had not had much in the way of sleep the last few nights because of a case that he had been helping Henriksen with; an unusual one which had only lasted as long as it had done because the criminal had, it had turned out, been possessed of a relative in Henriksen's station, who had been 'tipping him the wink' every time the police had tried to close on him. Sherlock had ferreted out the fellow and solved the case, but I knew that finding 'a bent copper' had dispirited both him and Henriksen.

Our visitor sighed in a put-upon manner.

“All right”, he said grumpily. 

“You may have my chair”, I said, trying to extend a peace offering. “I find it easier to take notes at the table.”

Our unwelcome visitor poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat down.

“As I am sure you remember”, he said, “six years ago there was a very unpleasant war between the Russians and our on-off friends the Ottomans, which, in line with all expectations, the Russians won hands down. The ensuing peace treaty was so one-sided, however, that all the other Powers rose against it, and we were able to get it rewritten. One of the eventual consequences was that the region of Thessaly was ceded by the Ottomans to the newly-independent Greek state.”

I remembered that war, and my fellow Londoners' noisy displeasure at the original treaty. It had been the year of the Rhododendron Lane Affair, concerning the club-footed Ricoletti and his abominable wife. Both had returned to Italy, he to eventually remarry and have a son and a daughter, and she to a permanent stay in a hopefully very unpleasant prison cell.

“British relations in that part of the world are tricky”, our unwelcome visitor continued. “The government backs the Ottomans, of course, as a bulwark against the Russian Bear, but public opinion is on the side of the Greeks, David against Goliath. It was British strength which won the Greeks their freedom sixty years back, albeit against the wishes of our government back then. However, although the treaty was implemented some six years ago, there have been problems. The main one comes from lack of definition; the borders of Thessaly have changed over the centuries, and naturally each side picks the ones that suit them. We had thought to have had the matter resolved last year, but now it is threatening to blow up again.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. I had had the foresight to have a second cup of coffee waiting for him as he had by now finished the first, and he smiled at me as he took it. 

“It is the Greeks who are being difficult”, Bacchus said, rolling his eyes as I served coffee to his brother. “The lands they were given provide them with about a quarter of the coast around the Bay of Thessalonica, at the top of which sits the city of that name. Naturally the Greeks want it, but rather than try to swing world opinion to their side over such a great prize, they are doing it more subtly, for once. There is a tiny islet, barely fifty yards across, that they call Poseidon's Rock. It sits in the centre of the bay's mouth, but because it is fractionally closer to Greek rather than Ottoman territory, the Greeks say that it should have been handed over to them.”

“Surely a tiny rock will not make a difference?” I objected.

“Bacchus' poorly-expressed point is one of public perception”, Sherlock explained, ignoring his brother's huff. “For both sides, especially after such a major concession as a whole province, even a tiny rock would be seen as a prelude to a further transfer of land. Especially as Thessalonika sits hard by the province of Macedonia, home to Alexander the Great. That resonates with many Greeks.”

Our visitor nodded.

“If a major war does start in Europe, as the British government fears, it will almost certainly be triggered by some quarrel that starts in the Balkans”, he said. “Ottoman rule of the area is bad enough, but letting all those potential nation states start going at each other over who owns what is a recipe for disaster, especially with the Serbs further north so close to the Russians, culturally speaking. We have told the papers that the two sides are meeting soon, and have implied that they may opt to go somewhere like Cyprus or Italy. In truth, representatives of both sides are coming to London.”

“Why?” I asked.

“At the last meeting, we nearly had a nice new war courtesy of one of the Ottoman translators misunderstanding a single word, and changing the meaning of a whole sentence”, he said. “The Greeks, naturally enough I suppose, assumed that it was deliberate. However, this time we managed to find someone both sides can agree on to act as an interpreter. Mr. James Collins is only twenty-three, but he has already produced the definitive work on the history of the region, and it was strictly impartial. He personally oversaw the translations into both Greek and Arabic, two of the eight languages that he is fluent in, and refused to sign either off until he was satisfied. I suspect that liking his book was about the only time the Greeks and Turks have agreed on anything in the past century!”

“I read that book”, I said. “I really admired the single-mindedness of the author. It was clear throughout that he did not even think of taking sides, or being at all judgemental.”

Mr. Bacchus Holmes nodded.

“I wish the same could be said for his family”, he said with a heavy sigh. “His mother Janet is from Athens, and fiercely pro-Greek, whilst his brother Jason is English through and through but equally fiercely pro-Turk. Though from what I have read about our man, I doubt that he even notices. They say that he is totally wrapped up in his work, and would forget to eat or go home unless someone chanced to remind him so to do.”

“So what do you need Sherlock for in all this?” I asked. Our visitor hesitated.

“Two nights ago, Mr. James Collins visited a Turkish baths in Oxford”, he said. “He was attacked on leaving the premises. His face was cut up, but fortunately a policeman heard what was afoot, and the assailants fled. I only learnt of it today, and came straight here from Oxford once I had checked up on him. He is in a bad way, but he insists he can still attend the meeting next week, even if he has to use crutches.”

“Admirable”, I said.

“You are afraid that there will be a further attempt on his life?” Sherlock asked. His brother shook his head.

“Apparently his brother is being, and I quote, 'a complete mother-hen'”, he grinned. “Mr. James told me that the only reason he was not there when I called was because he had sent him out to get a bar of chocolate from a shop several streets away, mainly just to get some peace and quiet! But I would like you to see him beforehand, and then again at the meeting.”

Sherlock did that head-tilt thing he did sometimes, analyzing his brother as if he were some strange species.

“Why?” he asked. His brother reddened.

“I just have a feeling”, he said. “Something's not right.”

“In your line of business, hunches can be the difference between war and peace”, Sherlock said. “When do you need us?”

“There is an informal dinner at my house for Mr. Collins and both sides, the day before the actual meeting. Thursday at six.”

“ _We_ shall attend”, Sherlock said. I may just have felt a very slight feeling of satisfaction when his brother visibly flinched at the use of the plural pronoun.

All right, perhaps it was not that slight. And just possibly I may have had a very marginal, borderline pleased expression that an uncharitable person may have just possibly misinterpreted as a smirk. Just possibly.

All right, I was Smirker-in-Chief of Smirk City! Satisfied?

+~+~+

I was surprised when, the day before we were due to attend the pre-meeting dinner, I arrived home to find Sherlock had gone out. Though his cases often took him away from Baker Street during the day, it was a rare thing that I beat him home. He came in late, and was greatly appreciative of Mrs. Harvelle having kept a dinner for him.

“That woman is a saint!” he muttered, all but inhaling the sausages and bacon as was his wont. I smiled at his eagerness, and waited to see if there would be any elucidation as to his whereabouts that day. Once he had finished eating, he sighed happily.

“A full stomach, a roaring fire, a good whisky and a good friend”, he said, pouring himself said drink before easing slowly into his chair. “Life is good.”

“You went out today?” I said questioningly. I noted that he still looked tired from his recent case, and I was worried for him.

“I went to Oxford”, he said.

“To see Mr. James Collins?” I asked.

“In a way.”

I stared at him curiously.

“Either you saw him or did not see him”, I said, a little testily. I myself had had a hard day, full of patients who had been more trying than usual, and was not up for guessing games.

“I did indeed see Mr. James Collins”, he clarified. “I also had a highly productive meeting with one Mr. Jebediah Spratt.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Until recently, he was Mr. Jason Collins' valet”, Sherlock explained. “He retired last year to a small cottage in the village of Yarnton, north of the city.”

“Why did you need to see him?” I asked, puzzled.

“Because he had something that forms part of this case”, Sherlock said mysteriously. “Very fortunately for him, otherwise we would be looking at a case of murder.”

“Murder!” I exclaimed in horror.

“Oh, and I spoke to Bacchus. We are to arrive for dinner at half-past five, not six o'clock.”

“Why?” I asked.

“To prevent a war”, he said, picking up his book, which I realized was that of Mr. James Collins himself. I sighed, and returned to my writings.

+~+~+

Despite my hard day, I found it difficult to get to sleep that night. Sherlock had been called out just after we had finished talking by a telegram from his father, which worried me about his health once more. I went to bed but found I difficult to get to sleep.

I was dreaming. It was a warm, sunny day, and I was standing at the gate to a house set about a hundred yards away. I had never seen it before, but I was sure that that was Sherlock standing on the porch, as a group of strange men rode up to him. The skies were very blue overhead, and there was a cool breeze that....

The house suddenly exploded into smithereens, scattering debris so far that it rained down close to me, despite my distance from it. I tried to go towards the wreckage, but someone behind me pulled me back. I let out a cry of agony.....

Then I awoke, and realized where I was. My own bed, in the safety of Baker Street. And Sherlock was sat on my bed, looking at me anxiously.

“You were having a nightmare, Watson”, he said. “Just a bad dream.”

I knew then that I could not lose Sherlock. I needed him in my life. Yes, we were both men, but I needed..... I needed my friend. 

“You were gone!” I blurted out. “Dead!”

“It was just a bad dream”, he repeated. “I am still here.”

I realized that I was breathing far too rapidly, and tried to regain control of myself. He looked at me anxiously, then to my surprise lay down on the bed next to me.

“Let us just sit here together”, he said calmly, “and remember that we are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”

“Shakespeare's 'The Tempest'”, I said, smiling despite the unaccountable wetness in my eyes. “Bookworm!”

It was good to feel his physical presence next to me, even though we were both in pyjamas and he was on top of the blankets whilst I was underneath them. I sighed, and tried to marshal my thoughts.

“It was a funny house”, I said sleepily. “All wood, like some sort of colonial farmhouse. And it was so warm.....”

My last thought was that he seemed a little tense beside me, but within seconds I was safely in the arms of Morpheus. 

+~+~+

I had the next day off work, which was just as well as I felt exhausted by the previous night. God bless Sherlock, he was the angel he was named after that day, realizing my need for his physical presence, even if he did not endanger my manliness by any physical contact. When he did have to go out to the post office, he asked me to go with him, and back at the house he remained constantly close. I did not deserve such devotion, but I silently determined to at least try to be worthy of it.

We arrived punctually at Mr. Bacchus Holmes' house that evening, though it was a close-run thing. My day off had been curtailed by a late patient, whom the surgery had telegraphed me to go and visit at her home in Mayfair, and I had had to race home and change in less than five minutes. On the plus side, I looked tidier than my friend, whose blue tie was haphazard as ever, and whose hair looked like he had just rolled out of bed. I had long given up trying to tidy him up; no matter how I re-arranged things in the cab, he would somehow contrive to look as bad as before when we finally stepped out.

A smartly-attired footman opened the door to us, and showed us immediately into the main room where the elder Holmes was standing by the fire. Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow at his brother.

“He is here”, Bacchus smiled.

Barely a few minutes later, a footman announced the advent of Mr. James Collins. I had seen his photograph (Sherlock had requested his brother to send one over), and my first impression was that the camera did sometimes lie. He was a little taller than I had imagined and had, I thought, a sinister appearance which was not helped by the dark glasses and half of his face still being bandaged up after the attack. He used a stout stick to walk with as he moved towards us.

“Mr. Collins”, Bacchus beamed. “Thank you for coming. Please take a seat. I shall have drinks served straight away.

The man nodded, and sat down heavily in one of the fireside seats. 

“The doctor said that I no longer need the crutches”, he said, placing his walking-stick beside his chair. “Just this.”

“That is good”, I smiled.

I saw the brothers exchange a meaningful look. Something was going on here.

“I am sorry that I am not yet back to full health, gentlemen”, our visitor intoned, “but I am restored enough to be able to fulfill the functions requested of me. If they still want me, of course.”

“We are grateful for that”, Bacchus said, sipping something bright green and frankly foul-looking. “We had thought we might have to employ your brother instead.”

The man seemed to stiffen.

“As I am sure you are well aware, Mr. Holmes”, he said quietly, “Jason and I do not get on. Are our foreign guests not here yet?”

“I asked them to arrive at six”, Bacchus said. “There was someone whom my brother and I wished you to meet first.”

A footman knocked at the door and was admitted. The same one as earlier, I noted. 

“Your other guest is here, sir”, he intoned gravely.

“Please show him in”, Bacchus said. 

I stared in shock. Apart from the carefully-styled hair and correctly-positioned tie, it could easily have been Sherlock's twin brother standing there. I gasped, a noise echoed from the fireside chair. 

Mr. Collins shot up without grasping his stick, drew out a revolver and shot straight at our new visitor. He could not miss.

+~+~+

I blinked. Nothing had happened. The new man – indisputably the real James Collins, I realized – continued to stand there. 

Our first guest fired again. And again.

Still nothing. Mr. Bacchus Holmes came across and quietly removed the revolver from his grasp.

“I may have neglected to mention, Mr. _Jason_ Collins”, he said silkily, “that the footman who took your coat when you came in is in fact one of our capital city's most skilled pickpockets. He was able to extract your gun from your jacket pocket, and replace it with a similar one - save for the fact that it only has blanks!” 

The man went white, and made to bolt for the door, but Bacchus grabbed him and threw him back onto the chair. In which, which my and Sherlock's help, he was very soon tightly handcuffed.

“The brother?” I asked, stunned.

“Mr. Jason Collins, younger brother of James over there, and himself a moderately decent translator”, Sherlock said, tightening the bonds to prevent any chance of escape. The man beneath him snarled, but was helpless with so many ranged against him.

“You knew?” I hissed angrily.

We were interrupted by the arrival of three constables, who had clearly been summonsed for the occasion. Mr. Jason Collins was soon being led firmly away, still tightly bound and handcuffed to one of them.

“I suspected”, Sherlock said. “It was the only way for the whole thing to make sense.”

“It is not making much sense to me!” I grumbled. 

“I shall go and take Mr. James Collins for some refreshments, and then receive our foreign guests”, Bacchus Holmes smirked. “Sher....” - he caught his brother's warning glance - “Sherlock can explain things to you.”

He led the shorter man out. I pouted, but sat back to hear what my friend had to say.

+~+~+

“You are upset”, Sherlock said.

“You could have trusted me”, I said crossly. “You have in the past.”

We were sat in our fireside chairs in Baker Street, a roaring fire keeping out the damp spring chill. I knew that I had no real reason to feel betrayed, but human emotions are rarely rational, and I still felt a little on edge because of my recent nightmare. He reached across to me, and gently placed his long hand on mine.

“I had very little time”, he said. “What with arranging everything, and your being late from your patient. I did not want you to go in with half the facts. Besides, as I have said before, you are too righteous a person to be a good liar. That is one of the things that I value most about you.”

I looked down at his hand, and felt childishly like pulling back from him. But I did not. He was right, damn him! With only some of the information, there may have been a danger that I could have done something stupid and risked endangering him. Or the vile Bacchus, though I did not care about him. I smiled a small smile at him, and was rewarded by a look of such wonderful relief, I immediately felt guilty at treating him so.

“Tell me everything now, then”, I said. He pulled back and sat in his own chair. 

“From the start, I suspected that either Mr. James Collins' mother or brother may have been in on whatever was happening”, he said. “Fortuitously, the mother was visiting a friend in Glamorganshire at the time of the attack, so that ruled her out. The brother, on the other hand, was 'walking back from a tavern', and could easily have got a cab to where the attack took place. Though I suspect that he was picked up by his former valet, who subsequently helped him. It was Mr. Jason Collins who had secured Mr. Spratt his cottage, and he would feel obliged to help out his old master.”

“The main point of the attack was to remove Mr. James Collins and allow his brother to take his place for the meeting”, he went on. “Mr. Jason Collins would then willfully mis-translate something that would make the Greeks look to be at fault. Openly insulting someone on British soil would have made British public opinion less likely to back the Greeks this time, and the government is naturally pro-Turk. The new Greek state is still small, and Mr. Jason Collins banked on them losing the war and having to return their recent gains in Thessaly.”

“There was indeed an attack on his brother outside the Turkish baths, but what happened next was very different to what the fake 'Mr. James Collins' told the police. Fortunately the man was averse to actually killing his brother, and merely kept him drugged at the home of his former valet. I spent my day out visiting the three who had retired or left recently, and only found Mr. Spratt last of all. I also found poor Mr. James Collins, though I could not converse with him at the time as he was still drugged. With Bacchus' help I extracted him, and impressed on the former valet that if he mentioned my visit to his employer, then he himself would likely stand charges alongside him. Capital charges.”

I shuddered at that.

“Mr. Jason Collins has to spend a few days impersonating his brother. It is not actually that difficult. His former valet has bandaged him up, and he tells the servants at their house that he is suffering from shock, and needs long periods of rest. That explains any unusual behaviour, and his heavily bandaged face and dark glasses make him unrecognizable. I spoke to the servants, and none of them saw both brothers together at any point after the attack.”

“Mr. Jason Collins does, however, make one mistake, which was unwittingly mentioned to me by his new valet, Mr. Thomas Furlong. He told me that, like his younger brother, the master had started suffering from dandruff, and that his clothes had to be brushed more thoroughly of late. His master was of course masquerading as his brother and spending some of his time living his life, so he had to use his brother's hair-brush occasionally, which transferred the dandruff onto his own head. There was also the slightly odd matter of his ordering new clothes from town immediately after the attack. He is of a slightly different build to that of his brother, so the clothes would not fit well.”

“Finally, he comes here. He is probably a little uneasy, and my presence makes it worse, but he is sure that he has covered everything, besides which he has his gun. Then his brother, whom he had thought was safely drugged and some sixty miles away, appears at the door. He snaps, and fires. Blanks.”

I stared at him in admiration.

“You may have just helped to prevent a major war”, I said.

“Delayed, not prevented”, he said. “That treaty left many areas of friction, and I would not be surprised if one of them flares up sometime in the future. Our only hope must be that Great Britain itself does not get drawn in. Modern warfare is increasingly effective at killing soldiers; we are not dealing with African spear-men who obligingly run in front of a machine-gun. A European war would be devastating.”

I agreed, little knowing that such a war was barely a quarter of a century away, and that Great Britain would indeed find itself a party to it. Nor that, in what would turn out to be our last case together, Sherlock and I would play our own parts in that war. And that we would only get that far thanks in part to a certain Mr. Collins.

+~+~+

And next, the story everyone asks for more than any other unpublished case – the one with the light-house, the politician and the trained cormorant.


End file.
